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37 sees Team Timekeeper fighting ferociously against more important enemies, but they weren't her focus at that moment.
Amid the battle between white marble and obsidian, she spots a trail left by the bloodied altar. 37 looks at her surroundings, seeing Foundation soldiers bash in the heads of Manus rioters, and Manus rioters piercing through the hearts of Foundation soldiers.
She knew to whom the blood at the altar belonged to, and what the Manus failed to do.
Her eyes followed the trail, leading to a tunnel only lit by few torches. Led by her heart, she began to run towards it, ignoring the distant calls of her team behind her. In that moment, another Manus monster collided with the walls, and debris fell upon the entrance to the tunnel.
37 had only one goal in mind now.
Within the long and dim corridor, she counted the torches. 1, 3, 5, 7, 9... so on and so forth. She cared little for the fresh blood stuck to her bare feet, much less for the rough rocks that scarred and mixed this fresh blood with her own.
She might have tripped once—twice, maybe? It didn't matter. 37 could only think of nothing but to run, only run, and to keep on running until she's at the end of the tunnel.
You're here, are you not?
Why run away now?
I have the answer.
Just lend your ear to listen, please.
Before she knew it, she was on the other side. A small cave, just as ill-lit as the tunnel. With only a whisper to her roughened hands, she brings a brighter light to the cave. This light guides her eyes to the one subject she had been looking for.
She is met with the sight of the familiar red. Presented to her in all of its glory, there's so much of it. Too much of it, even. She lies on the cold stone, quiet and barely breathing.
In walking through hell, 37 had finally found the missing half of that familiar melody, once sung at the shores way too long ago.
She walks to her, the light incantation following by. This was not how she wanted to confront her.
"... Sophia?"
For once, those green eyes don't open to look. It's marked with jagged shapes, left by deceiving hands. There was clear struggle when it came to removing them. Her hands are also scarred in a similar fashion; they're unequal, yet the pain flows the same way down.
The center of her chest had become a dark, narrow, and hollow pit. It made her already-dark clothes a shade darker, akin to what could be imagined of the River Styx.
These marks stain Sophia's skin with the same redness as her loose hair. And yet, she smiles at recognizing the familiar presence before her.
With her weak, and endearing voice, she says, "You're here, 37. Early, even."
37 doesn't say anything, at first. She could only kneel as if bound by instinct. She holds Sophia's wounded hands, just as she did when giving those uniquely-arranged shells.
She guides them to paint her own face, using Sophia's hands to hold her like she used to long ago.
"I missed you," 37 responds, tears threatening to fall.
As much as her body wanted to deny her, Sophia moved to sit upright, leaning down to let her lips touch 37's forehead. Crimson mixes with cerulean, just as how dirty hands—remaining still against 37's hands and face—stains the fair skin of her cheeks. She winced quietly as the pain echoed from her hollowed heart.
"I'm glad," she muttered. Sophia gently rubs circles along 37's cheeks, providing the familiar comfort that 37 had not felt in a long time. It calms her, like it always did.
"Will you come home with me? Would you let me walk with you again?"
Sophia lightly scoffs at 37's question. What is home to the exiled? To an irrational number? To her, the embodiment of sin? No one would wait for her back in Apeiron anymore anyway, not after what she'd done.
Well. Maybe the one who's holding her now will be the one to wait. Her hands are gentle against her own. And she's known her long enough that even in her final moments, she knew she can't say no to her; the one and only goddess she'd have ever believed in.
She wouldn't dare to rob the goddess of the love founded here in bloodshed. One founded too late, perhaps.
Like a vow, she answers, "I will ... I do."
A few moments pass. Sophia's hands begin to ease, and her head moves down to 37's shoulder. The familiar warmth fades into coldness, and her shallow breaths disappear. 37 looks down at the heap of red hair.
...
She couldn't help but mimic Sophia's concluding action, face half-buried into her hair. It smelled of iron and sea salt. Of home.
37 held Sophia's pale hand firmly as she moved her body so it could sit on her lap. That way, she could cradle her in her arms, etch every part of her in her mind. For this moment, √2 was Sophia's number. No one else's.
No one would be able to grasp such complex beauty founded in something deemed so blasphemous. But she would, wholeheartedly—to the end of time and Earth. √2 , √2 , √2 .
.
.
.
.
.
Hours passed. The small cave had rumbled occasionally, and it was becoming more difficult to breathe. By the 4th hour, there was silence. She clung onto this body for as long as she could, but she too is now faced with death.
There was only one way out, but 37 has a decision to make. What does she do with Sophia's body?
As per Apeiron's funerary rites, there are few ways to rid a soul of their body, and let it ascend to the transcendental realm. Among the 6's, burial was the most optimal way of doing it. But there were also two others; purification and cremation.
Purification is the process of a 6 or otherwise high-ranking member cleansing another well-respected member of Apeiron, and deconstructing their body into geometric shapes that related to their number. These geometric shapes would then rise into the skies above like the sparks of fire.
This particular practice had not been performed since the incident that occurred in the 3rd emanation. But 37 had learnt it from observing her seniors back then, when they think that all the children were asleep. Atticus had also learnt it, having practiced it on the deceased animals found among the shores. Eventually, she tried it herself, when she encountered an innocent yet old critter at the end of its life.
But neither she, nor Atticus, had done this on a person.
She cannot leave it here, it will rot. Nor can she bring it out, lest it'd be taken away or it be ruined by the destruction of the world outside. But what will she bring home? Who will follow her?
What will a warrior, swallowed by her pride, do with the carrion of the person who was once her voice of reason?
Sophia's body is growing colder the longer she lingers with her thoughts. She's losing time, and 37 knows that if she continued to wait, she'd die or be found. She doesn't want to die, that's not what Sophia would want. But she doesn't want to be found with the body either.
Whether by the Timekeeper or the Manus, they'd take the body either way. No one is deserving of such right, she thinks.
37 sighs, tightening her grasp on the limp hand. She leans down and repeats the action she had repeated several times over in the past few hours: leaving familiar kisses along her too-late lover's head. The blood had dried and wounds had clot. With her numbing arm, she lightly raises her upper body, raising Sophia to shoulder level.
She has drawn to her conclusion.
Gently letting go of her hand, she traces her finger along her knuckles to her bloodied cheek, bowing her head to whisper the incantation she recalled perfectly in her mind. She holds her hand again once her forehead makes contact with the other's.
As the incantation is completed, a gentle light begins to glow along Sophia's fingers, lines forming to create the shape that represented her number.
The square of root two is equal to the length of the hypotenuse of an isosceles right triangle with legs of length one.
In geometric form, it creates a diagonal line across a perfect square. It also follows the Pythagorean theorem, as the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the square of the other two sides.
The triangles form along her body perfectly, spreading from her arm to her torso, head, and legs. Starting from the lowermost parts of her body, they begin to separate and rise to the stone ceiling above the two. Once making contact with the rock, they disperse and disappear.
The small cave glows brightly with gold, in spite of the corrupted influence of the Manus Vindictae.
Looking up, 37 realized Sophia's faith had still resided in Apeiron's teachings, no matter what became of her fate.
The most stable shape from one of the most wonderful numbers.
She looks down once more, feeling the weight on her arms and lap become lighter; Sophia's body is slowly fading, and her soul is going to its rightful place in the transcendental realm. 37 grasps at the now-disappearing hand, leaning down on Sophia's forehead one last time.
She gently knocks her own against it—a final goodbye to what could have been.
And the fleeting moment has passed. The cave returns to its dimly lit state once again, and 37 holds no weight on her person. What remains are the patches of dried blood on her robes and her body.
But she never cared for such; what she does feel right now was the presence of emptiness becoming known as she sits idle in the cave.
She had done it. She had performed her first funerary rites for a person.
But at what cost?
37 could not think at that moment. Her mind had become blank, and her heart had become as hollow and numb as the wound founded in Sophia's chest. Her body could only act, guiding her out of the cave. But at what cost?
Incidentally, she finds a tattered and bloodied Timekeeper midway. She was just about to arrive to the cave, as the battle had finally cleared out in the end. But at what cost?
"You don't have to look back," she said. And 37 only nodded. But. At. What. Cost?
The two of them arrive at the recreated entrance, and 37 sees the cleared skies that was once missing when she had entered the cave. Spring, the Timekeeper had said in passing.
Many times 37 had moved forward and Sophia followed. 37 only looked back a few times because she was so sure—she always knew she was there. No matter how long it took for Sophia to catch up to her, nor how immersed she was in her equations, she was always there for her.
But for the first time, she doubts. She looks back, and her heart aches further.
She only sees the empty space behind her; only the dark and hollow tunnel, where she swore she still saw the remains of the dried blood.
She only hears her own breath move against the faintest sound of wind.
37 feels no eyes weighing perfectly on her once-balanced shoulders; only the weight of blood and the lingering presence of the girl she once held dear. Her own hand finds its way to the blood left on her face.
37 could not bring Sophia home as she had hoped.
But if it meant being able to bring her the closure that she painfully sought for, then she felt that this was the right solution.